


sing no songs except of restless blood

by MistressKat



Series: restless song [1]
Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, M/M, Power Dynamics, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nick wants to stay, he wants to, but maybe he needs a reason that isn’t pity or duty or some kind of twisted attempt at redemption for past sins.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	sing no songs except of restless blood

**Author's Note:**

> Note that I’ve just (like last week) gotten into this show/fandom and am only halfway through season 1 so that’s the canon basis I’m operating from. Please not to be spoiling me in the comments.

It’s always like this, or at least they feel like _always_ ; these middle-of-the-night, heart-in-mouth, blood-rushing-rushing-possibly-literally visits. Sometimes, like now, there’s no panic, just bone-deep weariness that drags at him, like his very sinew is turned to lead, and Nick can barely keep himself standing, leaning heavily on Monroe’s door, waiting for the footsteps and the grumbling that always, _always_ , come.  
  
Nick thinks he should maybe be worried about the way every metaphor and simile involves body parts nowadays. Maybe it’s the job.  
  
Maybe it’s Monroe.  
  
For all his don’t-mind-me plaid shirts and train collector geekery, there is an undeniable physical presence to him that demands attention. Guess you can control the wolf but not hide it. Monroe is _visceral_ , from the top of his unruly hair to the soles of his practical loafers, and all the not-so-secret-as-he-thinks places in between.  
  
And damn if Nick doesn’t find it _grounding_ , his anchor in a stormy sea if you like.  
  
Look at that; he’s progressed to nautical metaphors. Maybe all is not lost.  
  
“Just my beauty sleep,” Monroe says from the doorway. He looks Nick up and down like he always does, a not-so-quick scan Nick thinks Monroe thinks he doesn’t notice but he does. “Why are you on my front porch mumbling about the ocean at ass o’clock in the morning?” Monroe asks, stepping aside so Nick can step-stumble-trip inside the house. “I get seasick. Just so you know.”  
  
Nick laughs. It feels good. Such moments have been thin on the ground after Aunt Marie’s visit and the whole ‘oh and here’s your surprise fairytale destiny, nephew dearest, no happy ending guaranteed, but have a nice life as long as you can manage it’ bombshell that has torn asunder everything he thought he knew about himself and the world. Turns out that included Juliette too, not that Nick blames her for one second for preferring someone who didn’t lie to her every minute of every day.  
  
“You’ve been drinking,” Monroe says. His nostrils honest-to-god flare in an offended manner and Nick doubles over in laughter, clutching at the front of Monroe’s t-shirt for support.  
  
“Like a fish,” Nick says, laughing at his own weak-ass joke until there are tears in his eyes and then he can’t seem to be able to stop, gasping and sobbing messily with some complicated mixture of mirth and bitterness and several shots of whisky, his hands still tangled in Monroe’s shirt, warm from the solid body underneath.  
  
Monroe says something in German, could be a curse or a prayer, and half drags, half carries Nick further into the house, finally depositing him on the sofa like a sack of drunken potatoes.  
  
“Is someone dead?” he asks, sitting on the coffee table opposite.  
  
Nick thinks ‘mum-dad-Marie’ and he thinks about everyone who’s died since, human and _Wesen_ alike, some at his hand and he says: “No. No one’s dead,” because that’s not what Monroe is asking about.  
  
Except there’s something in his eyes, soft brown in the low light of the side lamp Monroe’s turned on for Nick’s benefit, that suggests he knows exactly what Nick is thinking anyway. “What happened?” he asks next.  
  
Nick holds his breath because Monroe’s questions are rarely so short, always followed by a story, rant, reminder of how simple his life was before Nick showed up, but there’s none of that now, just a steady, questioning look. An _understanding_ look. Like Monroe already knows the answer but he’s hoping Nick will tell it to him anyway.  
  
Except Nick doesn’t have the words. What he has is a heritage he doesn’t want, a whole menagerie of creatures that would make David Attenborough’s head spin like a dreidel, and an empty house that doesn’t feel like a home anymore. And tonight, when he’d walked in, it had all hit him like a sledgehammer to the solar plexus; a knock so powerful it had propelled him all the way to the nearest bar and into a bottle of cheap whisky.  
  
Maybe Nick has been too hasty with his answer earlier because it feels like something _has_ died: his life. Himself. The way they both used to be.  
  
“Went out for a drink,” Nick says though that was probably obvious before Monroe even opened the door. Idly, he wonders just how far the _Blutbad_ can smell him. And what he smells like when it isn’t a balanced dinner of dried peanuts and a half-a-bottle of booze.  
  
On the table Monroe jerks like he’s been slapped. “I... What?” he chokes out, visibly recoiling. “You can’t just... I’m _not_ answering that!”  
  
Guess Nick asked that last question out loud. “Sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry,” and it’s not just his running-away-from-him mouth that he’s apologising for, it’s everything. “I should go.” He struggles to get up, limbs uncoordinated and heavy, chest feeling raw and open, burning with an emotion he can’t, _won’t_ , name.  
  
“You should stay,” Monroe snaps back, the words angry and clipped and oddly tight, like he’s trying very hard to keep them unvoiced.  
  
And Nick wants to, _he wants to_ , but maybe he needs a reason that isn’t pity or duty or some kind of twisted attempt at redemption for past sins.  
  
Monroe lays his hands on Nick’s shoulders and pushes him back onto the sofa. There’s no real force behind the gesture, there doesn’t need to be, not when Nick is this out of it, but the _potential_ of it is there, simmering just under the surface, carefully restrained.  
  
Nick swallows and it’s not the alcohol making his mouth dry.  
  
“You should make me,” he says and then, because Monroe doesn’t get it or maybe he does, maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it, Nick adds: “Stay. You should _make me_ stay.” His hands are circling Monroe’s wrists, just holding on, because he entertains no delusions about being able to stop anything Monroe decides to do, whether that’s to pull away. Or keep on pushing.  
  
Monroe stares at him for long still seconds and when he finally blinks, his eyes open blood red.  
  
Nick’s fight-flight reflex twitches and tangles until it feels like his insides are knotted and he can’t breathe, just shiver right there under Monroe’s grip like a storm conductor waiting for a lightning. Against his shoulders Monroe’s finger bones shift, claws growing right under Nick’s hands, and it’s nothing but exhilarating, nothing but exactly what he wants; a reason to stay.  
  
“ _Nick_ ,” Monroe says, the name a mangled growl, rolling out from between Monroe’s not-quite-human teeth like something obscene.  
  
It doesn’t last. Before Nick can do more that open his mouth – for what he doesn’t know but thinks _begging_ might have been somewhere on the menu – Monroe has moved away, all the way across the room like he’s been scalded. Nick almost topples off the sofa, his balance shot from the alcohol and good old-fashioned lust coursing through his veins, both which Monroe must be able to smell.  
  
“You need to sleep it off,” Monroe says, his voice a careful monotone, eyes – back to brown now – trained to the far wall.  
  
Nick almost asks which one Monroe is talking about; the whisky or the obvious but apparently unwanted whatever-the-fuck this thing between them is. Because if it’s the latter, Nick can tell him no amount of ‘sleeping it off’ is going to work. God knows he’s tried.  
  
“You know where the covers and pillows are,” Monroe goes on like nothing out of ordinary has just happened. Except the way he’s keeping his distance and making no move to actually fetch said bedding himself speaks volumes. Normally, Monroe fusses over sheets and pillowcases like he’s missed a calling as an hotelier. That is, when he’s not actually offering Nick his own bed to sleep in.  
  
Not that Nick’s ever accepted. And tonight... well, doesn’t seem like that particular invitation is going to make an appearance right now.  
  
“Okay,” Nick says, because he’s too drunk to think of what else to say, what would make Monroe look at him again.  
  
And just like that he’s alone, head spinning as he gingerly lies down on the sofa, not pretending even to himself that he’s going to get up to actually make himself a bed. Instead he pulls the threadbare woollen blanket from under him and clumsily spreads it over himself as best he can. It smells like wood varnish and Monroe and Nick buries his face against the scratchy material and thinks about crying or shouting or leaving, maybe all three at the same time.  
  
But it feels too much like giving up and Nick’s never been very good at that. So he falls asleep instead.


End file.
